It’s Saturday night & I’m stuck
on PoetryCircle.com

another web site where everything is important
until I log off

at which point I look around:
an empty sofa
some pictures that have been there
forever
I see only dust

there’s a stack of letters,
bills probably,
& I have no money

there’s a big blue dildo
in my bedstand
& I know I’ll need that again
before I sleep

so this is why people write
poetry: they have nothing better
to do

they are amazing lovers
in their dreams
but their actual lovelife
sucks

they would do anything
nasty
so long as it had to do with
connecting to another human being
in some way that brought pleasure

but no one’s around

so they write about no one
being around
or they write about sex
in every way
imaginable

& I guess that’s why
poetry exists–
& big blue dildos